mostly short queer fiction from a tall queer guy

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Today, while I was getting ready, it occurred to me once again as I eyed the mirror that although many of the m/m or gay authors I’ve seen pop up in my various timelines baring quite a bit of skin in selfies, I wasn’t one of them.

Seriously. Take a peek at most male queer artist’s pages and there’ll be buffness on display somewhere. Biceps. Chests. Ink. All with a casual smile and a smirk and an “aw, no, this is just me.” That takes a level of confidence that I just don’t have.

Then—once I put on my underwear, because sexy author photos are still often y’know, more or less safe-for-work—I thought, you know what? No. I’m an adult. If they can do it, I can do it. To hell with letting myself feel bad about a body that doesn’t spend hours at the gym. To hell with discomfort I only feel because society tells me I’m not what a queer guy is supposed to look like.

I grabbed my phone, and I took a selfie right there and then, in my underwear.